Herbig Brown Eyes
by mnfowler
Summary: It is ten years on and George still works at Happy Time, although she has been promoted. She has to help other reapers take a couple of souls, and then she has to take one solo - one that is guaranteed to hurt her more than it hurts them.
1. Chapter 1

George looked up from her pair of computer screens to see the office manager of Happy Time Temporary Services, Delores Herbig, staring at her. Delores was smiling – as she so often did – in a way that George still found unsettling. As Delores held her head between the palms of her hands with her elbows resting on the wall of the cubicle, it struck George that her boss's hair had become rather gray over the past decade, but that sparkle in "Her-big brown eyes" was still there.

George usually worked in a cubicle that was right next to Delores's. The cubicle where George was working today had been hers back before her promotion to assistant office manager three years ago, but this cubicle now belonged to Bari, who was out today. George was pitching in to get some data entry done so that the office in general, and Bari in particular, would not fall behind.

"What?" said George, staring back at Delores.

"Do you have a picture of Dorian Gray in your attic, Millie?"

Delores, like everyone in the office, knew George by her undead name, "Millie." It was a long story that, by virtue of the fact that it involved a secret identity, George never had to explain to anyone. When she was alive, and under her previous name of Georgia Lass, she had gotten her first job through Happy Time, which had "conveniently" put her in downtown Seattle just in time to be struck and killed by a piece of Russian space-junk – a zero-G toilet seat from the original Mir space station. That was how Georgia – who had always preferred to be called George – became a grim reaper, another long story.

"First of all," said George, "I rent a two-room apartment and don't have an attic. Second, I'm no longer into guys, so why would I store a picture of somebody named Damian Gray anywhere?"

"Dorian Gray, not Damian," said Delores, "and while you took all those business courses at community college, you should have stopped to smell the roses and take some literature courses. Everyone should know about Oscar Wilde's story 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'."

"Is there a movie?"

"A couple, I think. You should see the 1940s one, though. Anyway, it's about a man who stays young and good-looking while the painting of him grows old and ugly."

"So this is either a back-handed way of saying that I ought to be aging more badly, or else you're saying I look really good for my age."

Delores did the half-scornful-half-mocking dance she always did. While her hand swept forward and across her body to dismiss George's words, she made a scoffing snort that quickly turned into a good-natured chuckle. Then it was down to business.

"How far have we gotten, Millie?"

" _We're_ almost done with the Ds. I thought I'd get a head start on the Es before I went home."

Delores shook her head, pressing her lips together firmly before she spoke. "Finish the Ds if you want to, but I just got off the phone with Bari, and she's coming in tomorrow, so she can pick up wherever you leave off. I want you to run the show for me tomorrow. Do you think you can step into Herbig shoes?" Delores poked her cheek with an index finger and twisted it as she often did when she made a pun on her own name.

"I've only done it once before," said George, "but I don't see why not. What's the day off in honor of, if I may ask?"

"You may ask, but it isn't a day off. I have to go over to Redmond and talk to their HR department."

"Interviewing for a position over there?" said George, raising an eyebrow. "Way to bury the lead, Delores."

Delores did a scoff-chuckle again, complete with hand wave. "No, silly. We have a big contract coming up. It could be an exclusive."

"In this economy, that will be good for Happy Time and good for our temps," said George.

It was true. In 2013 the economy was in the doldrums and it looked as if it would never get any better. Happy Time had seen more than its share of cut backs. Temporary jobs were getting scarce, and any good news was welcome.

"Got any plans for this evening?" asked Delores.

"Going to meet Charlotte at Starbucks," said George. "See where the evening goes from there." Charlotte did not just drink coffee at Starbucks. She worked there as a store manager. After graduating from the university with a degree in English literature, she had found that the only job she could get was as a barista. She worked hard, and now she managed one of the biggest Starbucks in a city that was practically owned by Starbucks. First, George had to go see Rube and the gang at Der Waffle Haus, and she did not even want to hint at reaper-related stuff with Delores – who believed that Rube was George's Alcoholics Anonymous sponsor. (Another long story.)

"Well, make it a good evening but not too good," said Delores. "I need you at your best tomorrow."

"I always try to be my best," said George.

Der Waffle Haus had been the reapers' haunt since before George was recruited about ten years ago. The gang had changed some since then. Daisy had actually made her quota, which was stunningly unbelievable considering her penchant for cutting corners. She had been "promoted" or whatever happened to reapers who met their quota. Nobody – not even Rube – knew where she was now. Anyway, Daisy was gone. Mason was still around and was as much of a goof as he had ever been. Roxy was a police sergeant now, a long step up from her old job as a meter maid, but her disposition was as sour as ever.

"Where the hell is Bob?" Roxy said.

"Can't say that I've seen him," George told Roxy, who was annoyed with Bob on principle. He pissed her off more than he did Rube, and it was Rube's job to be pissed at difficult reapers. Bob had been a cop before being killed in a car accident three years ago. He had been Daisy's last reap, and, per tradition, a reaper's last soul always became their replacement on Team Reaper.

George had gone with Daisy on that reap. Rube had given Daisy a Post-It with the name "R. Plunkett" and the address "Moe's Tavern, 1902 Mulberry St." The "ETD" or estimated time of death had been "8:55 PM." No full first name, no gender, no description in terms of height, weight or occupation. Nothing more than the first initial, last name, location and time, as usual. The only change in the past ten years was that the name of the establishment attached to a street address, when possible, was used now.

Daisy was good at sussing out who her reap was even though the clues on the Post-It were always so limited. She walked up to the bar and began talking to the guys around her. She was a misleadingly delicate-looking blonde, so who wouldn't talk to her? When the first three or four guys did not answer to the name "R. Plunkett," or even know who that was, Daisy moved on, working the bar so that anyone would have been excused for figuring her to be a prostitute, except that she kept losing interest in guys and moving on, even though the guys certainly never lost interest in her and were puzzled by her search for this specific guy, Plunkett.

Of course, Daisy was professional enough as a reaper not to assume that Plunkett was a guy, but there were only two other women in the place besides Daisy and George. Daisy eliminated them pretty quickly. It was not until she worked her way around to the darkened booths in the back corner that she found a cop in uniform who was nursing a bourbon. The nearly empty bottle beside his glass told the tale that he was not nursing a single drink so as to keep from going over his limit. He had passed that signpost a while back.

"Officer Plunkett," Daisy addressed him confidently. Why not? George thought. It said "Plunkett" right on his name plate.

"Yeah, who wants to know?" the policeman said, both drunk and disagreeable.

"Officer R. Plunkett?" continued Daisy.

"Maybe," the policeman said impatiently.

"What's the R stand for?" she said, putting on her usually irresistible charm.

"What's it to you?" said Plunkett, resisting her charm.

"Not a thing," said Daisy. She leaned toward him and stroked his arm in one motion. In that moment, she took the policeman's soul.

"You got a lotta nerve putting a hand on a police officer," said Plunkett. His words did not come out as dignified or even as threatening as he probably intended.

"I apologize, Officer Plunkett," Daisy said.

"That's good for you," he said. "You're lucky I don't run you in, but I just went off duty. Going back to the station, but just to drop off the unit."

"Don't let me stand in your way," Daisy said.

"As if you could," Plunkett scoffed.

He weaved around her and then weaved around George as if he were navigating a slalom course, even though a straight line should have taken him past both of them.

"Drive safely," Daisy gushed to his back.

He just waved his hand dismissively without turning back toward her. He ambled out the door of the establishment and got into his squad car, right in front where it had been parked in a handicapped space. George noticed a pair of gravelings – grotesque, hairy little creatures that only some reapers and the occasional schizophrenic could see – bouncing on the roof of the car. It was always their antics rather than those of reapers that attended the physical circumstances of accidental deaths. R. Plunkett pulled out into traffic and was immediately plowed into by a beer truck.

"A whiskey truck would have been more appropriate," George said.

"Bourbon would have been even more so," said Daisy. "He was drinking bourbon. He was a drunk, but he had taste." She put her hand on George's shoulder for a brief moment, but then it seemed to lift away like a feather in a breeze.

George turned toward her to make a caustic rebuttal, but Daisy was nowhere to be seen. Just like that, she was gone.

"You always had to have the last word, didn't you?" said George.

It was now George's thankless task to pick up the pieces.

Actually, the EMTs from the ambulance that had just arrived had to pick up the pieces, and there were a lot. The squad car was in pieces, too. The only thing that was not in pieces was the beer truck, although the driver was pretty shaken up.

"What the hell just happened?" asked R. Plunkett.

"You died," said George. She had long since given up sugar-coating the truth.

"Whadya mean I died? I'm right here," he said. "You on crack, lady?"

"If you're alive," said George, "then who are they using crowbars to get out of your car?"

That shut him up for a minute as he watched the transfer of his shattered body from the vehicle to the ambulance.

"What happens now?" he asked.

"Congratulations. You won the afterlife lottery!" said George with mock enthusiasm.

"I did?"

"Not really."

"So what happens? Do I move toward the light or something?"

"More like you move toward Der Waffle Haus and meet your new colleagues for the next fifty years or so."

"Huh?"

"Follow me." She started walking. He followed, although he was reluctant to keep up with George. He kept stopping and looking back at the receding accident scene.

"You say we're going to Der Waffle Haus?"

"Yeah."

"I hate that place," he said. "About ten years ago I had a really bad omelet there."

"Not a lot has changed since then," said George.

"Why do we have to go there?'

"Because that's where Rube likes to go."

"Who's Rube?"

"You'll find out soon enough. By the way, my name is George. I never quite got yours."

"It's Bob. And why do I suddenly feel sober?"

"Death is a sobering experience, I've found."

"Yeah? Well, I could really use a drink. Say, did you say your name is George? How come you got a man's name? You're not one of those transgender types, are you?"

"No, but I am a lesbian."

"No kidding?"

"You got a problem with that?"

"Not at all. Lesbos make the best cops, you know. As far as ladies are concerned, I mean."

"Uh-huh," was all that George had to say to that.

Since then, Bob had become bitter. Despite twenty years of what he claimed to have been otherwise exemplary service, the department gave his family a hard time about receiving his full pension because he had been drinking on the job.

"I was off-duty," Bob always complained.

"Then you shouldn't have been in uniform and driving a squad car," Roxy would remind him.

So Roxy resented Bob for disgracing the police force. She had struggled to become a regular police officer and was glad that Bob had not gotten back on the force under his new identity. On the other hand, Bob and Mason, the druggie, would have been bad influences on each other, if they ever overcame the whole cop versus hippie distrust they had going. This left the job of showing Bob the ropes to George.

"Watch over Bob," Rube had said to George.

"Why should I have to watch out for him?" George answered, but she knew why.

The key was that George had given Rube so much grief with her own attempts to contact her parents and kid sister after her own death that she could empathize with Bob's concern for his family. "Going home" – which, in the context of reaping, always meant visiting your previous life and those still in it – was even more of a temptation for Bob than it had been for George. He would lurk around and stalk his former family. Since he no longer looked like the Bob Plunkett they had known – because all reapers get a new appearance – they called the police on him several times. Rube hated to bail out anybody who got arrested. Reapers officially do not exist, and Rube did not want to answer any questions. Bob tried to claim he was an ex-cop but could not prove it. When arrested, he would start to tell cop stories or refer to cops he had known and worked with, but suddenly his brain seized up. George had experienced the same thing when she tried to tell her own mother a childhood story to prove her identity. The mind simply went blank. So now the police thought Bob was a psychiatric case.

George still watched her family, but now always from a great distance. Reggie, her kid sister was in college, majoring in psychology, which was a wonder to Joy, their mom, who had always suspected that Reggie would end up as an inmate rather than a helper. George liked to think that the anonymous little gifts she sent Reggie over the years had nudged her toward an exploration of life rather than the exploration of death that the aftermath of George's death had started her on.

Even though Joy, herself, still hated the word "moist" she had married a captain in the U.S. Coast Guard, a nice man who treated her like a queen, which was what Joy needed after twenty years of marriage to absentee husband and sometime father Professor Clancy Lass.

Clancy, Clancy, Clancy, George thought to herself. She had forgiven Clancy long ago and even felt a little sorry for him. Not too sorry, considering that he was the one who had hurt Charlotte when she was a young and impressionable college student, enthralled by Professor Lass's ability to weave together Shakespeare's works with 'tween-something angst. Clancy Lass was a bit of a 'tween-something himself, emotionally anyway, though the gray in his hair was beginning to make that a harder sell. Charlotte had seen through the act years ago, but it had taken her a full year to see through it.

It was still awkward for George to be seeing one of her father's cast-offs, not least because she could never tell Charlotte that Clancy had been her father in a previous life. George was "Millie" to Charlotte, and it had to stay that way. "Don't get too close to the living," Rube always said. It was at once good advice and impossible to adhere to. For one thing, since reapers received no stipend and had to either work or steal to eat and keep a roof over their heads, some kind of interaction with the living was unavoidable. Besides that, the undead had all the same needs as the living. They had bodies that needed food and rest, and emotions that needed expression. It felt good to talk and smile and touch someone else now and then. Rube disapproved of relationships that were more than transient, but he mostly didn't say anything unless an obvious problem came up. Sometimes one did.

"Here they are," said Roxy.

George turned her head to see Rube and Bob walking toward them. Both wore slickers because it was rainy. Not too rainy. Just the usual. Welcome to Seattle.

"I see we're all present and accounted for," said Rube as he and Bob slipped off their coats, hung them on the rack near the door, and squeezed into the booth. Rube was often glum, but George noted that he seemed especially letdown. She wondered who he was irritated with tonight. It used to be George, but, lately, Bob was the likeliest candidate.

Kiffany, the head waitress of Der Waffle Haus swooped in to get the new orders from her best customers – which mainly applied to Rube and sometimes Roxy, more so than Bob or Mason. Roxy had already eaten and was sipping her free coffee refill courtesy of Kiffany. Mason was eating Splenda out of the packets. Sugar, George could understand, but Splenda? Out of the packet? Then, she could not understand much of what went on in Mason's head even after a decade. George herself had ordered an unsweetened ice tea and was nursing it. She wanted to leave room for whatever she and Charlotte did not have planned for later.

"Two Banana Bonanzas," Rube ordered.

"Nothing for me," said Bob.

Rube held up two fingers to Kiffany, overruling Bob. "And a pot of coffee," he added. "A whole pot."

George watched Bob's face fall into the usual frown of resignation. When it came to Bob, Rube was the bad cop and George was the good one, when she was in the mood. Right now, Rube seemed to be playing bad cop.

"Everybody ready for their assignments?" said Rube, opening his binder. Post-Its lined both sides of its open face. Rube peeled them off two at a time and handed them out. Mason and Roxy studied theirs.

"Not a very wide window on this one," said Roxy.

"Yeah, sorry about that. I was unavoidably detained," said Rube.

"I can guess by who," said Roxy.

"You got a problem with me?" said Bob to Roxy as they glared at each other. "We can take this outside."

"Roxy is in too much of a hurry," said Rube. "She'll have to kick your ass another time."

"Who's going to drive me out to East Skidmark?" Mason asked.

"Not Bob or George," said Rube. "They're going to take a soul right here in town." He handed Bob a sticky. Just then their Banana Bonanzas arrived. Rube closed his binder and dug right into his whipped-cream-covered food, but Bob pushed his plate away and focused on the Post-It. Absently, he held the handle of his coffee cup while Kiffany filled it.

"I don't need a chaperon," said Bob.

"Yes, you do," said Rube between bites of his banana waffle.


	2. Chapter 2

"What's eating Rube?" George asked Bob after they were clear of the restaurant.

"Don't know."

"Not something you did?"

"It's not always something I did," Bob said. He seemed exasperated.

"Okay, fine," said George. "I can just tell that something is eating him, but I'm not sure what it is."

"Well, he does want to have another meeting bright and early tomorrow morning."

"Yeah, but that's not unusual," said George. "How come you came in with him?"

"He was waiting for me after my meeting," said Bob matter-of-factly.

"You're going to meetings, now?"

"It's not a big deal."

"I think it is. Congratulations, Bob."

"Yeah." Bob seemed embarrassed.

"So what does the sticky say?" George asked in order to change the subject.

"It says, 'F. Markarian, Moe's Tavern, 1902 Mulberry Street, ETD 6:57 PM'."

"Holy shit, Bob!" said George. "Couldn't Rube have handed that to somebody else? Shit, I'll do it for you, if you want. You can wait outside."

"Nah. Rube sent you with me to hold my hand, but I got this. _You_ can wait outside if you want. It's not your usual place, right?"

"What do you think my usual place is?" asked George.

"You know, a lesbo bar."

"And we were just getting along so well," said George.

They walked in silence for a while. The bar was only a couple of blocks away, and it was 6:30. They had plenty of time.

"What was that last name?" asked George.

"Markarian," said Bob.

"What kind of name is that?"

"It's a Markarian name, sir," said Bob.

"Huh?" said George.

"You never read 'Catch 22', did you?" said Bob.

"You're only the second person today to remind me that I haven't read all the books I should have. But, seriously, what kind of a name is Markarian."

"Armenian, probably. They always end in 'ian' or 'yan'. Don't know why."

"So it isn't somebody you know," said George.

"I don't know every alcoholic," said Bob.

When they got to the bar, Bob opened the door for George, but as she hesitated just inside, he passed her and began walking up and down the bar behind the patrons. George supposed that he was trying to guess who F. Markarian was.

"Can I help you, Mac?" asked the bartender.

"No need, Fred," Bob replied.

"Hey," said Fred, "do I know you?"

"Ah, not really," said Bob. He and George looked at each other and then simultaneously checked out the liquor license on the wall behind the bar. In illegible letters, the licensee was named as "Frederick M-something."

"He _is_ somebody you know, sorta," whispered George.

"I only knew his first name."

"Yeah, that's what Mason says about his connections, too."

"I was a customer here a long time ago," Bob told Fred. "I've been away a long time. No reason you'd remember me. But I remember you. Say, I never asked this, but how come the sign says 'Moe's' but your name is Fred?"

"Bought it twenty years ago from a guy named Moe. Never changed it."

"That makes sense. Say, didn't you once tell me that you're Armenian?"

"I might have," said Fred. "Are you Armenian, too?"

"Me? Nah," Bob did not have this down quite yet. He paused too long, but he finally followed through. "Markarian isn't it?"

"Hey, you got a good memory," said Fred. He was warming to the attention. Go in for the kill, thought George. She immediately regretted the terminology, but, glancing at the time on her Smartphone, she saw that now was the time for Bob to act.

"Can I shake your hand?" said Bob, extending his.

Fred thought about it just a second before he set down the cloth he was using to wipe the bar. "Why not?" He put out his hand and Bob took it. George saw the shimmer as Fred's soul left through his arm.

"How come you went away?" asked Fred.

"I been on the wagon," said Bob as he checked his watch.

"Oh, glad you said something, because I was just about to offer you a drink on the house."

"No, don't bother."

"Wouldn't have been any bother. Just a minute." Fred turned his attention to a man who was hoveringly close to resting his cheek in his spilled drink. "You've had enough, Mac. I'm cutting you off."

Suddenly, the customer became both animated and hostile. "Don't tell me what to do!" he sneered. "I'm sick of people telling me what to do. My whole life everybody tells me what to do." At least that was what George thought he was saying. It was hard to tell because he slurred every other word and sometimes did not make several words in a row comprehensible."

"Okay, Mac," said Fred, stepping back and raising his palms toward the unruly customer to show that he had no ill intent.

"Oh, now you wanna handle me, huh?" said the man. He glanced around and grabbed by the neck a full beer bottle that was in front of the man next to him and smashed its end loudly on the inside edge of the bar. Shards flew everywhere. Beer sloshed onto the bar and, especially, the floor behind the bar. George saw a graveling appear behind the bar and leap from one bottle to another, jostling each of them in mid flight. The critter looked right at George and snarled. Same to you, buddy, she thought.

"Take that!" slurred the drunk as he poked the broken bottle toward Fred.

Bob's hands opened and closed as if he wanted to interfere.

"We're not allowed to do anything," said George in a low voice as she sidled up to Bob.

"Didn't I just do something?" said Bob. George knew it was hard for reapers not to feel responsible.

Fred backed into the shelves to stay away from the broken bottle, causing the already tippy liquor bottles to come down in a chain reaction reminiscent of bowling pins: Some bottles would not have rained down if they had not been hit by other bottles. In reaction, Fred stepped forward, momentarily more afraid of the mighty crash of the falling bottles than of the one in the drunk's hand, but, as soon as he did, he slipped in the spilled beer from the drunk's bottle and went down on his back.

The drunk staggered away from the bar and dropped his weapon with another crash.

"Look!" called somebody who had grabbed the inner edge of the bar and pulled himself forward so he could look down at Fred. "There's blood and broken glass all over the floor back here!"

"Somebody call 9-1-1!" cried someone else.

Some men made a semicircle around the drunk and tried to grab him, but he grabbed for another bottle from the table behind him and was about to break it when Bob elbowed aside the men in the semicircle and punched the drunk so hard that he went straight down and stayed there on the floor. Bob bent over and miraculously caught the falling beer bottle before it hit the floor. He set it back on the table in front of the awed customer who, no doubt, had thought that she would never see it again.

"Don't drink that right away," said Bob to the customer. "It's all foamed up and needs time to settle."

"You didn't have to do that," said George.

"Yeah, I did," said Bob. "It was the least I could do for Fred."

"You did him a bigger favor by taking his soul out before he died. All that broken glass in his back would have cramped his style in the afterlife."

"I know," said Bob. "It's been explained to me, but it doesn't feel much like I did him a favor."

"Who did who a favor?" said a man behind them. When George and Bob turned around, there was Fred, or the essence of Fred.

"Walk with us," said Bob. He walked to the door and opened it. Fred could have walked through the closed door, but Bob obviously didn't want to let that happen, having been taught by George that it usually freaked out the newly dead. Fred went to step through the open doorway but turned to look at Bob midway.

"Did I just die?"

"Yeah, Fred, you just did."

By the time they got out on the sidewalk, the ambulance had pulled up to the curb with its siren blaring. EMTs seemingly burst out of every door and went into the bar.

"You know," said Fred, "in this light you do look familiar. What's your name?"

"Bob."

"Yeah, yeah. You're a cop, right?"

"I was."

"Oh, now I remember! Didn't you get hit by a beer truck?"

"That was me," said Bob. He turned to George. "I got this, George. I told you."

"You did good, Bob," George said. She stood on the sidewalk and watched Bob lead Fred away. Presently, some vision of lights was going to appear – maybe The Great Beer Keg or a neon tavern sign in the sky – and Fred was going to go into it and disappear. George had seen enough of those light shows not to need to see another. Besides, Charlotte was getting off work at 7:30, and George did not have much time to get there.

"Sorry I'm late," said George.

"No worries," said Charlotte as she gave her girlfriend a peck on the lips. "You want some coffee?"

"No thanks. Tonight I'd just like to spend some quiet time with somebody I am deeply fond of," said George.

"Tell me who the bitch is," said Charlotte. "I'll scratch her eyes out."

"Please, don't do that to yourself!" said George, making a face of mock alarm. They locked eyes and brought their faces so close together that their lips nearly touched, but they didn't.

"Get a room, you two," said a male barista, who was nice-looking for a skinny dude, though he had thick-lensed glasses and unruly black hair sticky out from under his cap.

"Go to hell, Flaco," said Charlotte good-naturedly, but her eyes just smiled at George.

"How did you spend your evening?" asked Rube the next morning at Der Waffle Haus. George was having her favorite meal. Two fried eggs arranged like eyes on the plate with bacon strips deliberately made to curve in a smile. George had ordered the bacon extra crispy because she never ate bacon but she knew that Rube liked it that way. He always ate it off her plate, which always made George smile. Not that she needed any further reason to smile after last night.

"After I watched Bob reap – and he did really well, by the by – Charlotte and I rented a DVD and stayed in all night."

"What'd you see?" asked Mason.

"'The Picture of Dorian Gray'."

"Oh, was it British or American?" asked Roxy.

"Well it was set in England," said George, "but I think it was actually made in the U.S. back in the 1940s."

"Nineteen forty-five," said Bob. "Hurd Hatfield, George Sanders and a very young Angela Lansbury."

"Am I the last person on earth to see this movie?" said George.

"Could be," said Rube. "What prompted you to see it?"

George remembered Delores's remark yesterday. "Could be a commentary on our existence." She looked around the table. "You know?" She rolled her eyes significantly, shifting them toward Rube's big binder of ETDs, in case nobody got what she was referring to.

"Yeah," said Rube, "we need to talk about that sometime."

"What?" asked Bob.

"You haven't been around that long, Bob, but me and Roxy and Mason, and even George, have been coming to Der Waffle Haus for more years than I care to count."

"Well, ten in my case," said George.

Rube continued. "The point is that, to outsiders, we haven't appeared to age a day in the past decade, and the idea for reapers is to remain inconspicuous."

"What if we just get new appearances?" asked George. "You know, get a new model and come back here with new identities?"

"Think about it," said Rube. "We'd still be huddling together at the same table. I'd still be passing out stickies to everyone. We'd still have the same personalities. Mason would still be living off of sugar packets."

"Splenda," said George.

"And Roxy would still be a grouch," Rube went on.

"Hey!" said Roxy.

"And you'd still be eating off of everybody else's plate and tipping big," said George to Rube.

"The point is," Rube repeated, "no matter who we look like outwardly, we are still recognizable because of who and what we are."

"So does that mean we have to find a new place to eat?" said Bob. "I never liked this place, so I don't see a problem."

"That is what it will mean," said Rube. "It doesn't have to be today or tomorrow, but we are going to need to move on fairly soon. I'm already on the lookout for a new venue."

"Can we have some input?" asked Bob.

"No," said Rube. "Security is my responsibility, so I will make the decision."

"But we could have input," said Bob.

"No."

After Rube passed out stickies to everyone, he told George to stay behind, and everyone else left them alone.

"So-ooo, do I get a sticky today?" asked George.

"Yes, but I need to talk to you about it."

"Why?"

"Because I wasn't given any leeway about assigning this one to you, and I want you to know that I went to bat and demanded they didn't do this to you."

"Gee, and I think we have a tough boss. I never think about what you have to put up with. Do you ever see them face-to-face?"

"No, we just leave notes for each other. In some cases, like this one, angry notes. In this case, I may have used some language that I shouldn't have."

"Wait," said George, "what are we talking about? Somebody I know is going to die?"

Rube stared blankly at her.

"Oh, my God," she said. "Is it one of my parents? My sister? Are all of them going to be in a car wreck?"

"No, no," said Rube quickly. "It's nothing like that. They'd never make you do that. Hell, I would go on strike and let the universe go all whacky before I allowed that. No, it isn't any member of your family."

"It isn't Charlotte then, is it? I'd go on strike myself if anything happened to her."

"No, it's not Charlotte, either."

"Well, who is it?" said George, a little loudly. Other customers and their waitress, Kiffany, looked over at them.

Rube glanced around to make sure that people went back to minding their own business before he pulled the last remaining sticky from his binder and handed it to George. George looked at it for a long time. She could not believe it:

"D. Herbig, Abe's Japanese Restaurant, 14651 NE 24th St., Redmond, ETD 12:11 PM."

George looked up at Rube twice before she spoke. She had to look back at the sticky and make sure she had read it correctly. She had.

"Rube, this has got to be a mistake."

"I wish I could say it was, Peanut."

George could not remember the last time that Rube had called her that. It must have been years.

"Look, what if we check with the management upstairs again?" said George.

"You're bargaining, Peanut. You know the rules."

"Screw the rules!"

"You know better than that," said Rube. "We went over this years ago. Once somebody's name goes on that sticky, it's because they're going to die whether you're there or not. Without you, though, their afterlife is going to get off to a hellishly painful start."

"I know that," said George, and she reached in her purse for a semi-used Kleenex to dab at the tears that were already running down both of her cheeks. "I just don't want to be there when it happens. Hell, it's bad enough now that I know it's going to happen at all."

"I know, Peanut," said Rube.


	3. Chapter 3

George made quick and dirty work of her logistical problems. Rube made the first step easy when he broke his ironclad rule of never letting anyone use his vehicles. So George was able to get to work on time even after a few quick shopping errands. She parked Rube's car in Delores's spot. Delores was not using the space today, and it pained George to recall that she would never use it again.

Now George had to go into the office and delegate enough authority so that she could leave at 11:30. She had the use of Delores's desk for the day. Just as George had hoped, Delores had left out a detailed copy of the itinerary for her visit to Microsoft. It looked to George as if the itinerary had originally come by email, and Delores had printed out one or more hard copies. There was a Microsoft logo at the top of the first sheet and a "to-and-from" heading that was the kind that appeared on email.

George took it and studied it at her own desk. It showed that Delores was to check in at the front desk and that she would be escorted up to HR by somebody named Patricia Lovejoy. After a meeting from 9 to 11:30 – oh God, George thought, what a final experience to have before death – but then she remembered that Delores was not George and would probably get a kick out of an otherwise boring meeting, especially because it was at Microsoft and would mean more work for Happy Time. When a company press release said that managers were excited to announce a deal between their two companies, it was usually hyperbole, but in Delores's case it could be literally true.

Unfortunately, Delores was not going to live to enjoy her success.

Damn it, George, she told herself. Stop being morbid and stick to the job at hand. Take the next step, and then the next. A step at a time. Then George remembered that Delores was the one who had ingrained that approach to a difficult project.

"Lunch at Abe's Restaurant at 12:00," the itinerary said.

George repeated the name of the restaurant to herself in an effort to pronounce it correctly. She had seen it written before but never heard anyone say it – let alone been there. Rube told her it wasn't "Abe" as in "Honest Abe Lincoln." It was a Japanese name, pronounced "Ah-bay." In this case, it was the name of an upscale Japanese restaurant located between Seattle and Redmond.

George looked at her Smartphone. It was almost 11:25.

"Crystal," she said to the receptionist who intimidated everyone without ever saying a word, "I need to go out for an hour or so. Can you hold down the fort?"

"Yes," said Crystal. It was already turning into one of the longest conversations they had ever shared. Leaving the office in Crystal's inscrutable hands was not the best decision, George knew, but, at this point, Delores, Crystal and George were senior to every other person in the office. If somebody got out of line, though, what was Crystal going to do, George wondered, lick their telephone receiver while they were at lunch? But it could not be helped.

"I'll try to get back as soon as I can," George said, "but I might not be able to come back as soon as I want to."

"Where will you be?" Wow! Crystal actually asked a question, and a good one, too.

"I need to deliver some important papers to Delores. She forgot them."

"Can't you fax or email them?" Crystal was on fire. The one day George wished she would be her usual tight-lipped self.

"They're proprietary documents," George lied. "For Herbig eyes only." George tried to laugh at her own – or, rather, Delores's – joke. She searched Crystal's face in vain for a reaction or any indication that the receptionist was buying any of this. Whatever was going on behind Crystal's eyes, it had never shown before and did not now. "If that's all your questions for now," said George, "I'll see you when I get back."

With that, George walked quickly out of the office and headed to the parking lot.

When she arrived at the restaurant, it was 11:59. George parked in the lot behind the building and changed. She took off her blazer-and-skirt suit and rolled down the pant legs of the slacks she had put on underneath. On the way to work, she had made a point of buying a brand new blue shirt so as to be wearing something that Delores had never seen before. To perfect the disguise, she took the Scunci out of her hair, which she then carefully mussed up. Then she put on a new pair of CVS reading glasses that had almost no magnification. She studied the effect in the rear-view mirror. It was not intended to prevent anyone from recognizing her, just to throw someone off long enough for George to toss some of her patented pixie dust in their eyes.

She then scoped out the scene. Abe's was located in a mall that was made to look like a miniature small town. If that seemed redundant, it was not. Few small towns would have been as small as this one. The sidewalk around the restaurant was very narrow and there were sapling trees on every corner. Someone must have thought they would eventually grow, but for now they were almost tiny.

The people from Microsoft had not come yet. George sat at the bar and nursed an unsweetened ice tea. Anyone who asked was told she was waiting to meet someone. No one asked whether her party had reservations because, even in this swanky joint, there weren't enough customers at midday to require reservations. That is, unless you were a party of six, which was Microsoft's reservation for noon. George peeked at the reservation book to gather this intelligence while the maitre d' was bending over to pick up the new CVS makeup case she was using as a faux clutch purse.

It was now 12:04. Delores's party was running late. Now, was "it" going to happen inside the restaurant or outside? George would have to keep an eye on the parking lot, as well as the time. Thanks to the big glass windows, she could see all of the front parking lot from the bar.

At 12:05, a dark minivan, without any logo or other telltale markings, pulled into the lot. Six people got out. Delores was one of them. She was smiling and laughing. One could say that she looked excited. For real. Delores kept touching the arm of a svelte young woman in a navy pantsuit. George bet that this was Patricia, the corporate host. Patricia was smiling and trying to laugh to keep up with her guest, but nobody could keep up with Delores.

At 12:06, the driver rushed in to check with the maitre d' to make sure that the reservation was secure. It apparently was.

At 12:07, the party came in and was escorted to their table. George turned away and tried to blend in with the crowd – such as it was – at the bar. The trick was going to be taking Delores's soul without influencing the situation. The last thing George wanted to do was actually cause Delores's death, even accidentally.

An accident. That was what it would have to be, but George could not tell how it was going to happen.

It was 12:08, and George caught sight of a graveling going through an opened door leading into the kitchen. She leaned over to catch where it was headed, but she couldn't see.

"Millie?!" It was Delores, and she sounded shocked, disappointed and disbelieving all at once.

Millie hated to do this to Delores, but she had prepared for the possibility of running into her face-to-face.

"I'm sorry," said George. "You aren't going to believe this, but I'm not this Millie person, but I do get mistaken for her all the time. Who is this beautiful girl?"

Delores was properly thrown by this ploy, and she could not dismiss it completely. "No kidding?" she said. "Well, aren't you the spitting-image of my good friend, Millie. You are right, though. You are considerably more dressed-down than she would be at this time of the day, and your hair is not as nice as hers."

"Well, I truly hope to meet this lookalike someday," said George.

"I'd like to arrange it," said Delores. "Do you have a business card?"

"No, but I'm in the book in Redmond," said George. She looked over Delores's shoulder. The clock on the wall said it was 12:10. "Your party looks like their waiting for you. The guy in the chef hat just brought something to your table. Looks like a special platter."

Delores beamed. "We're celebrating a new contract," she said. "They want me to have sushi with them." She put the edge of her hand to the corner of her mouth to affect a stage whisper. "I've never had sushi before."

"Hope you enjoy it," said George, reaching out her hand. Delores shook the offered hand, and George took her soul.

"Thank you," said Delores. "I still can't get over how much you look like Millie. I wanted to tell her that we got the contract, and telling you makes me feel as if I already have."

"Go figure," said George smiling half-heartedly.

Delores turned and started back to the table, but she stopped and turned around.

"You said you are in the book, but you didn't say your name."

"Georgia. Georgia Smyth. With a Y in Smyth."

"Really? Georgia Smyth. I think I can remember that." She went back to her table. It was 12:11.

There was a lot of laughter and banter at the table. Some people dipped right in and scarfed down some sushi. They were coaxing Delores to try some of the fish on the tray. George heard somebody say it was a great delicacy, which George took to mean it was very expensive. Delores was being a good sport and ate the fish. She laughed while struggling to keep her mouth shut.

"Don't chew," said the woman George thought was probably Patricia from HR. "Swallow it whole."

Suddenly, Delores clutched her throat and tried to stand up. She was turning purple, and George was amazed to see her face swell up to what appeared to be twice its normal size. There was a loud commotion at the table as people called for help. The chef practically had to climb over Microsoft execs to get to Delores and begin first aid, but it was too late.

"What the dickens is going on?" asked Delores. She was standing beside George at the bar.

"You died, Delores."

Delores did a double take at George.

"You – you really are Millie, aren't you?"

"Yes," said George. She had already removed the fake glasses and had run her fingers through her hair to smooth it back, but that wasn't what made Delores recognize her.

"But wait," said Delores, narrowing her eyes. "You aren't just Millie, are you? You're that girl. You said your name was Georgia but it's not Smyth, is it? It's – its…."

"Georgia Lass. It's been me the whole time."

"What is this? What are you?"

"When Georgia Lass died, she became a grim reaper. Somebody who has to take the souls of the dying to lessen their suffering."

"Why did you come back to Happy Time? Was it to take revenge for the mean way I treated you when we first met?"

"No, no, Delores. Not at all. I came back because I needed a day job, and Happy Time was the only place I knew to go. I really have valued our friendship, and I wish you didn't have to go, but these things are decided way above my pay grade."

"To be honest, and not to talk out of school," Delores said, as she always did when she was about to say something even mildly critical of Happy Time's parent corporation, "they must not pay you much if you had to come back to work at Happy Time."

"They don't pay us at all," said George.

"Really? That doesn't sound like a very efficiently run organization."

"You're telling me," said George.

"Where to now?" asked Delores. She was squinting at the on-going commotion around her unseen body, presumably still lying on the floor behind the growing crowd. An ambulance arrived outside, and the EMTs piled into the restaurant. Sometimes they actually saved lives, but never when George was around. George figured that said more about her than them.

"Usually, there is a light show somewhere that attracts the recently deceased," George told Delores. "See anything?"

"I think I see something outside," said Delores, and she started out of the restaurant, walking right through some of those who were coming in. George was momentarily afraid that Delores would freak out, but, after an initial shiver, she smiled at George as if the experience was exhilarating.

George followed Delores outside, and there she saw something, too. A giant Excel sheet reached from the parking lot to the clouds and from one side of the lot to the other.

Delores walked toward it but stopped and looked over her shoulder at George.

"Maybe I'll shake things up and get you a paycheck," she said.

"A modest stipend would be enough," said George.

"You know I can do better than that," Delores said. She smiled. "I just won a contract with Microsoft."

"I hope we meet again," said George.

"Me, too," Delores said, "Georgia Lass." With that, she turned to face the Excel sheet, which had a cell in the middle of the bottom row that read "Herbig, Delores." Delores looked around at George one last time. She smiled, tilting her head, and pointed to her big brown eyes. Then she put her hand on the cell with her name and instantly turned into little swirling balls of light. These and the cell swiftly rose to the top of the sheet where they and the entire vision disappeared.

George turned back to see the ambulance driving away.

The HR woman, Patricia, looked distraught, but she pulled out her cell phone. She dialed a number, and, to George's surprise, her own phone began to vibrate in her pocket. She had taken the precaution of turning off the ring so as not to call any attention to herself. Nevertheless, she dashed around the corner of the building before taking the call.

"Hello," George said. "Millie speaking."

"Hello, this is Patricia Lovejoy, director of human resources at Microsoft."

"Hello, Ms. Lovejoy. What can I do for you?" George was not sure she was going to pull this off, emotionally. But she imagined that Patricia Lovejoy was having the same feeling.

"I'm calling about Delores. Delores Herbig?"

"Yes?"

"I'm afraid there's some dreadful news."

"What is it?"

"Well, I'm afraid that she collapsed during lunch and has been taken to the hospital."

"Oh, my God," said George. She was focusing on trying to be supportive of Patricia, since she had already made her peace with Delores. "How did it happen?"

"She ate some bad sushi. 'Puffer fish', I think somebody said. I don't know. I've eaten at this restaurant dozens of times, and this is the first time I've seen this happen."

"That's awful. Are you okay?"

"Oh, yes, I'm just fine," said Patricia. "Thank you for asking. I'm more worried about Delores. We just signed a contract with your company this morning, you know."

"I know," said George. Catching herself she added, "I mean, I know that is what we were anticipating." Then she said, "I am slightly curious to know how you got my cell phone number."

"Delores gave it to me," said Patricia. "She said that if I couldn't get hold of her, she trusted you implicitly to deal with anything that came up. I guess this is one of those things. I called you on your cell instead of at your office because I figured you might be at lunch."

George looked at her Smartphone and was surprised to see that it was 12:25 already. "Well, tell me where the hospital is, and I'll be out the door."

"She's on the way to St. Joseph's, I think," said Patricia. "I'm going there right now."

"I'll see you there shortly," said George. She was sitting in Rube's car soon after hanging up. She had to kill a little time so as not to show up at the hospital too soon. She changed into her suit and rolled up the pant legs on her slacks again. She brushed her hair and replaced the Scunci. Then she called the office to break the news. Crystal seemed even more upset about Delores than George had expected. She gave George the number for Happy Time corporate, and George called Delores's boss, Peter Potter. George usually thought his name was funny, but not today. She was able to truthfully say that she was on her way to the hospital because she was slowly rolling toward the parking lot's exit while she was on the phone.

"I appreciate you're taking charge," said Peter. "Delores was always positive about your contribution at Happy Time. I don't want us to get ahead of ourselves, but I'm afraid I've heard of puffer fish poisoning before. If it turns out to be a worst case, we'll have to talk about transitions, but let's put that off for now."

"Let's hope it isn't necessary," said George.

"Of course," said Peter. "I'll let you go. Keep me posted."

"Will do," said George. She hung up and joined the traffic on the road, heading in the same direction the ambulance had taken. She realized that Peter had just implied that Millie might be promoted to Delores's job. George felt guilty about her first thought: more money. Her second reaction was to the prospect of more responsibility. She never really wanted Delores's job because she knew that she wouldn't really like doing it and preferred knowing that Delores was taking care of a lot of bullshit so that George did not have to. Delores, on the other hand, loved the responsibility. It had meant the world to her.

George then remembered the conversation over breakfast that morning. Reapers all have that portrait in the attic that is getting older, even if there isn't an actual painting – or even an actual attic. In another ten years, Millie would still look twenty-something. Rube had said that while it might not be today or tomorrow, pretty soon the gang would have to move on. George would, too. Even if she took over Delores's job, it would not be for long, because the future held not only a new restaurant but a new job, and maybe even a new girlfriend. She had already lost so much that if there was a way she could keep something, she wished that it could be Charlotte.

But tomorrow would be soon enough to deal with the rest of George's afterlife. Today belonged to Delores.

END


End file.
